


Contrary to Popular Belief

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-10-06 20:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10344057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: SPOILERS: NoneDaniel’s thoughts as Jack lies in the infirmary.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

Stargate SG-1 | Gen Fanfiction | Contrary to Popular Belief

##  Contrary to Popular Belief

##### Written by Pewter   
Comments? Write to me at [pewter2@aol.com](mailto:pewter2@aol.com)

  


Contrary to popular belief, I, Dr. Daniel Jackson: Egyptologist -- _cum_ \-- Classicist -- _cum_ \-- Linguist -- _cum_ \-- Anthropologist -- _cum_ \-- Archeologist -- _cum_ \-- inter-planetary explorer, have very good instincts. 

Okay, so I don't react in any _typical_ manner. When most people see a deadly weapon pointed in their general direction their first impulse is to get the hell out of the way. And that is the reaction that my team members have been trying to drum into my thick skull for the past -- what is it now? -- three years. However, as much as I love those guys, they have forgotten two very important facts: one -- that I am not now, nor ever have been, typical, and two -- that I actually have very _good_ instincts. 

* * *

The incessant throb of the medical equipment around the bed is driving me nuts. On one hand, I find it comforting, a reminder that the body on the bed is still functioning and is steadily growing stronger, on the other hand it's, well -- it's annoying. It is impossible to rest with all that _stuff_ demanding attention. 

_It was easier to handle before,_ I think tiredly, rubbing my hand across my eyes. Earlier there had been distractions: the medical staff was in and out, the noise from the other patients, Janet giving updates, and Sam and Teal'c standing by. I could ignore the equipment that was gauging life signs. But as evening faded into late night, and late night had passed into early morning, things had gotten quiet. Sam was ordered to bed, and I had asked Teal'c to go meditate, or whatever. At first the Jaffa had been reluctant to leave, but I have _some_ sway over the big warrior, and he had finally relented. Then Janet had gone home, and the night staff had finally settled. There are no more distractions. 

And the friggen' machines are driving me nuts. I know that I should probably go rest too. _Yeah, **rest.**_ My own voice runs through my head, dripping with sarcasm and self-loathing, _You know you're not going to be able to actually sleep for a long time after today._

Oh, _God_ Jack. I'm sorry. I screwed up again. Big time. If Sam and Teal'c hadn't come running... I am _so_ sorry -- 

Knock it off, Jackson. Do you really want to lose it now? Time for a new line of thought... 

What was I thinking about? Oh, instincts -- right. Anyway, while most people have an instinct for self-preservation, I have an instinct for -- well, silly as this might sound (and believe me, I would never say this out loud): **protection**. I _have_ to protect the people around me. I don't even have to particularly like them, but I will do anything to keep them safe. To keep you guys safe. _Especially_ you guys. Because... I -- I need you guys, Jack. 

In a way I guess that it _is_ a form of self-preservation, now that I think about it. Because if one of you guys were to... die -- I don't think that I could handle that, Jack. I really don't. Maybe I could have before, but not now. Not when I'm just beginning to remember how it feels to... trust... like that. 

I've seen too much death; it has stolen from me too often. I hate death; I hate seeing people get hurt, I'd rather die than see... God. Jack... 

You look cold, Jack. 

I reach out to touch him -- I don't know why, probably to take his hand or his shoulder, like he does with me -- and pull back again, all before I'm aware of having moved at all. I cross my arms. Funny, but I don't seem to know what to do with my hands... 

* * *

Hmm, these chairs really _do_ feel like they were designed as an ancient form of Chinese torture after you've sat in them for awhile. I always thought that you were exaggerating, Jack. Trying to make me pay for making you worry. 

Well, it's payback time. I'm tired, I'm sore, and -- and I'm scared shitless, Jack. There was so much blood... 

Goddamn it, Jack! What the hell were you doing? What the hell were you _thinking_? I didn't know that you were there. I swear to whatever gods there are, that, if I had known that you were there, I never would have... 

Oh yes, Jackson -- by all means just go ahead and have a nice mental breakdown. I'm sure they still have your padded room waiting for you. Hell, they've probably had it on reserve ever since -- Oh, let's not go there. Let's definitely NOT go there. 

Gods, I'm tired. I think that I could sleep for days, Jack. And coming from me you know that means something. 

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, I also have very good reflexes. 

I know, I know. I can hear the masses laughing. But it's true (and I think I proved that yesterday afternoon). I mean let's face it, it takes pretty quick reflexes to manage to throw yourself between a person you care for and, let's say, a staff weapon blast. Do you know how fast they fire? 

God. Of course you do. Come on, Jack, I can read those monitors. The story that they tell doesn't look like it has a happy ending. You have got to fight Jack. I _know_ that it's hard, but you have to fight just a bit harder. Please. 

I wish that I _hadn't_ reacted quite so quickly this time. If I had just been a little slower... But I didn't know that _you were behind_ me. What were you doing? Playing a rousing game of 'let's scare the bejezzus out of the anthropologist'? I know that you are endlessly amused by the act of sneaking up on me and scarring me out of my wits -- and look at what happened. 

I drop my head into my hands, rubbing eyes that have become dry and sore from strain and weariness. 

Okay, so there was no way that you could have known that there was a Jaffa in the tunnel. And, granted, the punishment, by no means, fit the crime. 

I'm sorry. If I had known that you had come up behind me... that you were in the line of fire... I never would have -- 

I never would have ducked. 

I can't take this chair anymore. Not that I'm leaving -- what, leave after making all that effort to sneak back in here after Janet ordered me to bed? Not likely. But, I am _not_ going to sit in that torture device any longer. Heh, I can hear you now, Jack : "I've sat in this same chair for you, and that I would have continued to sit in this chair for as long as it took!" -- however, I'm much smarter than you are Jack. Yeah, yeah, I know. I would pay for that one if you were awake. So, wake up and make me pay. 

Now would be good. 

Or sleep, if you need to. I don't really mind waiting. Just don't leave. Please, please don't leave. 

I look up, taking in his unnaturally still form. He's so... pale. 

Okay Daniel, no allowing that sigh to turn into a yawn. I almost reach for his hand. 

Okay, focus on the immediate problems that you can solve. Think, Jackson. It's what you get paid to do. 

First off, get rid of this damned chair... 

"I'm only going to step away for a minute, I'll be right back, I just have to solve this little seating problem..." I whisper the words to him, and wait. There's no response, and I find myself sighing, even though I didn't really expect one. I stand up and stretch. 

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, I am not nearly the innocent that everyone thinks I am. 

As I walk quietly down the hall, I realize just how much the others' attitudes toward me confuse me. Since when has compassion been equated with naivete? After all, I've lived in some pretty hard places, both before and after I was orphaned. Just because I try not to let the things that I've seen and done burn out my humanity, doesn't mean that I haven't been witness to some pretty nasty stuff. 

Maybe I should tell them about the 'children's market' for slavers that I stumbled into once when I wandered away from my parents on a trip to Asia... Um -- on second thought, never mind. It's not a story that I particularly want to tell, and they _definitely_ wouldn't want to hear it. 

Jesus, this place is quite. The only noise is the shuffle of my footsteps, and even that stops when I reach my destination. Damnit. The door to Janet's office is locked. The lock is not _really_ a problem... though I was hoping that I wouldn't have to do this. 

With a mental apology to Janet, I reach for my credit cards and my pocketknife. Then I hesitate; if the nurses hear me moving around in here they will throw me out. And I don't want to leave Jack. 

Of course my mind spits out _Jack's_ voice to assuage my lingering nervousness -- "so don't make a lot of noise and you won't get caught." Typical O'Neill response, number 116. Jeez, Jack, you're always _so_ helpful. I don't know what I'd do without you. 

Whoops. I honestly _don't_ know what I'd do without you. God, does it always have to sneak up and slap you this way? 

Focus Daniel. 

It takes me less than a minute to pop the lock on Janet's door -- the traditional Orphan's talent. I grin as I remember the look on Sam's face the first time Jack had me break and enter while she was watching. Jack had forgotten his keys, and Sam was saying something about a locksmith, but Jack simply gestured at me, and, with a sarcastic bow, led me to the door. I opened the door, and as we were going in Jack made some sarcastic comment to a very shocked Carter about how I had broken into his office two weeks after he got assigned here. Okay, true, but you wouldn't give me the information that I needed. And besides, the look on your face when we were in that meeting, and you realized that the charts were copies of the ones in your office... well, it was priceless. 

I take one look around Janet's office, and make some quick decisions. I quickly move a small table that is covered by unfiled files -- jeez, Janet, you're almost as bad as I am -- and shove one of the 'guest' chairs against the wall. Then I quietly roll Janet's very soft, very comfortable office chair from behind her desk, and out of the office. 

Oops, I almost forgot to leave a note. 

I find paper and a pen and scribble an apology to the good doctor. There, that should make it _almost_ painless the next time I need stitches. 

I lock up quickly, and push the chair down the hall and into the infirmary. And no, Jack is not awake; no, the readouts on the monitors have not improved; and no, there is no reason to think that they will in the near future. 

So I settle in, sprawling in the oversized office chair while kicking my feet up in the hard plastic torture device that has been demoted to the rank of 'foot stool.' I pull my arms in, crossing them tight against my chest in order to suppress a shudder of complete despair that has washed over me in a sudden, familiar flood. I tell myself that it really isn't my fault that Jack got hurt, that he will actually be proud of me when he wakes... I repeat to myself Janet's reassuring words -- that Jack will be fine. That he just needs rest and some time, but that no permanent harm was done. But none of that eases my growing sense of hopelessness, because none of that really touches the _cause_ of it. This sense of... inevitability. Because, I know that no matter how hard I fight, how hard I try... I can't stop this. 

Because, contrary to popular belief, it's _not_ always me. 

It's not always me who winds up hurting, and bleeding, and fighting for life in this stupid room. Gods, I wish it was. 

And I know that this will happen again. 

I know what losing you guys would do to me. I know that, although I would _physically_ survive it, well -- let's just say that there are already enough holes in my heart. I trip over them constantly. 

I would do anything to make sure that it was always me. 

But I also know that I don't have a choice. I know how life works. 

So I try to accept it. Accept the fact that, once again I have grown close to someone; several someone's in fact, I amend with a small mental grin. And that means accepting all that goes with it -- the joys, the sorrows, the pain, and the risks. I understand that --completely, utterly, and wholly -- in a way that, thankfully, few people do. And I accept it, unconditionally, once more. 

For you guys. 

But I am never, _ever,_ going to duck again. 

Because contrary to popular belief I have very good instincts. 

**~ End ~**

* * *

>   
>  © July 1, 2000 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.  
> 

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